Sprout 🌱🍁:)

It could not be said that she had wed a cruel man. There was no especial malice driving any of Mr. Collins’s decisions and indeed, he had been kind enough in the marriage-bed, making an effort not to offend any delicate sensibility she might have, unexpectedly gentle, and she knew herself fortunate that in a parsonage which did not allow for separate bedchambers, he did not snore. He was less obsequious away from his patroness Lady Catherine, which meant that their evenings alone were tolerable unless a visit to Rosings was in the offing, a situation which drove him to a feverish pitch of mingled exhortation and instruction, remarks often repeated as soon as he’d uttered them. He gave her a fair allowance to run the household, she had a cook and housemaids, a gardener and a groom, and he made few demands other than to confess he detested mutton however it was prepared and had an uncommon fondness for skirret fritters. He labored mightily over his sermons, though she could tell little difference in them from one Sunday to the next, and blessedly, he did not expect her to act as his amanuensis.

He was just so terribly dull, she could hardly bear it, she who had chided Lizzie for her romantic ideals, the risks her friend took waiting for a man she might love with all her heart and soul.

Charlotte knew she might feel some affection for William at some point, but that was all the future held, a quiet, patient companionship and the years ahead stretched interminably, her body and position adequately sustained, her intellect withering.

It was a bargain she herself had struck almost eagerly and now could not confess her fears, for who would sympathize? Not her mother, who had been overjoyed and astounded that Charlotte had managed to snare the Bennett’s heir, not to her sister Maria, and though there was occasionally a surprising gleam in the eye of pallid Miss de Bourgh, she dared not risk speaking a slightest word that might be held against her husband, a disloyal wife who would risk his livelihood.

She tried playing the spinet, but her talent was paltry and the music meager, a thin broth. No degree of practice nor skilled tutelage would improve it. Her husband’s library was full of sermons and essays, his Greek texts from Oxford as unreadable to her as they had been impenetrable to him, but had she had a novel or collection of poetical works, they could not have held her attention much better. She sat in the window-seat and watched the lane, embroidered an altar-cloth, and felt her very self begin to come apart as the steam that rose from her afternoon tea dissipated into the air, into nothingness.

And then, a miracle! The letters began to arrive.

First, Lizzie wrote, regaling her with tales of her family, of her walks in the countryside, her wit and zest for life, her uneasiness about her prospects, her undeniable fascination with Mr. Darcy all readily apparent, despite the occasional blots due to her tendency to use her pen too long, when a fresh nib was clearly needed. She’d enclose a sprig of whatever blossom or herb she’d found on her excursions, small mementos Charlotte found dear and charming.

The next letter came from Jane Bennett, a polite little missive, much shorter than Lizzie’s, but possibly more informative, if one knew, as Charlotte did, how to correct for Jane’s perpetual sunniness to see the truth of Jane’s observations. It was a translation, to read Jane’s letters, and appreciate heartbreak and melancholy and anger, emotions Jane might allow Lizzie to see direct, but no one else.

There was a letter from her sister Maria, full of complaints, so much like home Charlotte felt the refreshment of relief when she finished it, to look about Hunsford and see her own domain, run to her own direction. The night that letter arrived, Charlotte kissed her husband as soon as he came through the door, and laughed when he blushed, smiled sincerely when he muttered I say, Lottie.

Her pen flew. She responded to every letter she received the same day, except for Lizzie’s, as they required more thought, more argument. She spent her pin-money on the best ink and skirret seed, so she might grow enough to make her husband skirret frittered, fried and creamed, so he might not complain at the cost of having her post franked. 

She wrote to Mary Bennett, suggesting the young woman read Sterne’s sermons and then Tristram Shandy. She wrote to her mother and asked for Cook’s best receipts for jugged hare, for a tonic for catarrh. She wrote to Miss de Bourgh, very carefully, extolling Rosings’ grounds, mentioning Herbert and more daringly, Donne, and was rewarded by short notes in an elegant hand inviting her to tea, asking her opinion on lemon curd. 

When she told her husband, he kissed her as soon as he heard, muttering, I say, Lottie, well-done you. And then, how sweet you are, how lucky we are, and Charlotte didn’t feel she needed to argue with him.

She’d simply write about it to Lizzie. She’d write and invite her for a visit.

Tagging @janeuary-month